Chapter Four: Compromise

---1---

"Where were you?" Charlie was fretful, had trouble getting up. "You're both soaking wet."

"Stay there, son," Fitzy said, and the chamber door slammed shut, locked behind them. "Your brother's ill." He led Don to the mattress. "I begged them to let us take a leak. Looks like they were busy while we were out."

Don looked up. The room was gloomy and he realized that Reylott's men had bolted boards over the window to prevent further mischief. Luckily, through the spaces between them, sunlight managed to sneak in, sparing them from complete darkness. He relaxed and gave his eyes a break, welcomed the respite. His head pounded yet the trip outside had been soothing in more ways than one: The rain was chilly, cooling his feverish body, and he'd captured drops of it for his thirst, craving a bucketful.

Tending to him, Charlie placed a hand on his forehead. Don cracked his eyes open slightly and glanced at Fitzy, who was walking around the room, and assured Charlie he'd be fine, the fever would subside on its own.

Charlie wasn't convinced. "Not if they drug you again, Don," he said. "It could kill you. I won't chance that." He went on to explain what had happened with Jacobi, her ridiculous scheme to conceive a child prodigy with him and the failed first attempt. "But I'm going to make a deal with her—in exchange for letting you and Fitzy go."

"No deal." Don forced himself to focus. He ached all over. "Tell her no."

"You said to work on her, that's what I'm doing."

"Changed my mind. She's whacko. How…" He swallowed deliberately, a shiver in his spine. "How long? She could keep you for months, and…and no guarantee Rey releases us, or does away with us. You wouldn't know."

Charlie removed his jacket, arranged it over Don. "Fifty percent."

From the corner, Fitzy asked what percent.

"Possibility of conceiving a child in four months. Ninety percent in a year."

"In that case or any case," Fitzy said. "Forget it. I don't like being locked up and I wouldn't like being forced into slavery, no matter how pretty a gal is."

"I don't either," Charlie said. "It's humiliating."

Don coughed, his stomach growling. "You're not gonna' do it."

"I'll never forget when we first met, she was charmer."

"Don't get sucked in, Charlie, it was an act," he said. "Stall her." Don was apprehensive. Charlie could stall for time by giving Jacobi exactly what she wanted, over and over again. "As soon as you cooperate, she or Reylott can take you away from us. Don't give her anything, especially your DNA."

Charlie acquiesced. "Of course, you're right. Rey's the unpredictable factor." He stretched his shirt to wipe Don's face. "Under that kind of stress, not knowing what'll happen…a child would be the last thing on my mind."

Don sighed. He was getting hotter, wished for a breeze to bring fresh air into the fusty room. Even with damp clothes, the drafts he'd felt before were no longer sufficient. And he worried. Would Charlie follow his orders or act independently to save him? Charlie wasn't under his command, on his team, and he seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for Jacobi, as though he believed he could turn her from her evil ways. He rolled to his side, groggy, and the room seemed to lurch when he lifted his head. "Promise me…" he whispered. "Charlie?"

"I'm here. Shhhh…quiet, rest. It's getting dark."

Fitzy extended his arm up to the growing hole in the ceiling but couldn't reach. On the floor, the pile of debris had grown wider and rainwater collected in the southern end of the room.

"Promise," Don said, squeezing his eyelids to halt the lurching walls. "You won't compromise."

"I promise." Charlie covered him again. "Don't talk. Sleep."

Don tried to, but dozed, tossing and then regretting it when it made him dizzier. Over the thunder, he listened to Fitzy on and off, his voice filtered in and out with the noise. The old gentleman sat at the end of the mattress near Charlie and when Don opened his eyes, the sight was eerie. The powerful storm had arrived in torrents and lightning flicked through the cracks in the boards, flashing across their faces. Charlie and Fitzy became unrecognizable.

Fitz fretted, explained about the rain: You don't have to be an architect or a mathematician like you, Dr. Charlie, to understand how much water an old building like this can take, he said; I'm upset about the leakage in here—the water pools there because of the sinking foundation. I'm afraid the whole ceiling's going to collapse, or the floor—the whole damned thing.

The mattress shook and shifted and Don realized Charlie and Fitzy were dragging it to the wall, away from the south end. When he awakened, it was dawn and Charlie sat beside him, drinking bottled water and eating a bread roll.

"Don," he said, excited. "Water."

He took a deep breath and scrunched aside the jackets covering him while Charlie came up from behind, propped him up against his shoulder, and Fitzy assisted with the water. Don sipped carefully; his muscles were stiff and achy. He felt neither better nor worse but ate, holding a roll with one hand and Charlie's forearm with the other.

The respite was short-lived. Within the half-hour the door swung open and Reylott towered over the three of them, his band of monkeys at his beck and call.

---2---

"Your turn, Eppes," Reylott said, and ordered his minions to seize Don.

Charlie hung onto his brother, wouldn't let go. "You can't, he's sick."

Reylott delayed his order, knelt on one knee, examining Don's face. "You're well enough to eat," he said, and stood, waved on his men.

They charged forward and Charlie tightened his grip over Don's chest. Atlas growled, raised his fist as if to smack him but instead grabbed Charlie's hair and eased a knife across the surface of his neck, telling him if he didn't let go, he'd cut Don away from him, piece by piece.

Charlie held his ground. He's bluffing. "Rey," he said, careful of the blade. "I want to see Jacobi."

Rey laughed, took a pistol out from the small of his back. "I'll bet you do," he said. "No. I have a job to finish."

As soon as Atlas released Charlie, Don was wrenched from his arms and taken away, supported between Blue and Lipman. On his way out, at gunpoint, Charlie glanced back, gave a thumbs up to Fitzy and in a few minutes found himself in the despised room downstairs. Don, who was lethargic, seemed to have little fight in him and was dropped to the table without a fuss.

Charlie's hands had just been tied together when Rey ordered Atlas to escort him into the hallway. There, Jacobi led him through a swinging door to a larger room that appeared to have been the kitchen. There was a work-island in the middle; a sink, counters and pantry; greasy lines on the floor where a stove had been; and a dumbwaiter in the water-stained wall. Near the island, Charlie was instructed to take a seat in a weathered chair and Atlas secured him to it, stringing a rope over his chest.

When he was done, Atlas guarded the door while Jacobi leaned against a counter with arms crossed, staring at Charlie.

"Are you feeling better?" she said.

Why do you care? "I'm concerned about Don," he said. "Don't let them sedate him anymore, it's killing him."

"What're you talking about? I thought he had the flu."

How could someone so smart be so dumb? He curbed his indignation. "No. He's having an allergic reaction to the sedative your brother's using. If he's exposed to it again, he could die."

"I see. And what about me? What will you do for me if I talk to Rey, make sure he doesn't accidentally knock off your brother?"

Charlie heard Don in his mind: Promise me you won't compromise. There's no guarantee Reylott will release us. You won't know, Charlie, she'll take you away, keep you for months, years…

Forgive me, Don, I have to break my promise. "I'll stay with you, until you have what you want," he told her. "I'll cooperate."

A smirk crept across Jacobi's lips and she left the room without another word. In the dimness, Charlie waited, listening to the relentless rain-patter on the roof, and wondered if he could perform for her under duress, so much stress. It wasn't natural, the way it was meant to be between a man and a woman.

He took inventory: banged-up knee, bumps on the head, bruises and abrasions, a splitting side, and the ugly tattoo, still incomplete, thank God. Did Reylott intend to stop with one or continue to disfigure them, needle after needle? And to think, people paid to have them done. It almost made him smile: He was getting his at no cost—well, not the cost of money, anyway.

The ropes hampered his breathing, crossing beneath his armpits and around the chair's slat. He inhaled deeply but his chest expanded only so far, then constricted. With his thumbs, he dug under the ropes, trying to loosen them, but was unsuccessful.

The door swung open and Jacobi bounded back in, her expression resembling those of the feline gargoyles on the roof. She came straight to him, straddled his lap, sandwiching his head between her palms. "As soon as Rey's done, we're out of here."

No…it's just what Don feared. "Why can't we stay here?"

"I hate it, it's a dump. And out there it's dry and depressing most of the time." She nestled his hand in hers. "Then there's this god-awful rain."

"And Don? The old man?"

"You can't have everything, Charlie," she said. "But you can have me. You're looking stronger."

She was revving up. And to think I once desired her—when she pretended to be someone else. The kind student who played the flute, baked cookies and grieved for her dead mother.

"Actually," he said. "I was awake all night, taking care of Don. I'm beat."

Jacobi said, "Cooperate, I'm sure I heard you say cooperate."

He kept his wrists close to his chest. "And there's my knee."

"You'll forget your knee," she said, and tucked a lock of his hair behind an ear.

Charlie redirected the subject, bringing up one more immediate. "Can you ask your brother to stop the tattoos?"

"He won't till they're done. I guarantee you that. Some things he won't even talk about. You're lucky I got him to agree about the sedative." She proceeded brazenly, grazing his neck with lively kisses, her hand fumbling for his belt.

He leaned back as far as possible, fingers shrinking away from her unavoidable breasts. "There's no privacy. I need privacy."

She inched the belt from the buckle. "I've given the boys instructions."

Her caresses were pleasurable, infusing him with anticipation and agitation at the same time. "I can't do it tied up like this."

"Sure you can," she said, slipping the belt from the buckle. "What we need is free as a bird, once I get you undone. Relax, I'll do all the work."

There was a part of him that wanted to give in and continue to stall her, another that wanted to tell her to go practice her flute. Despite his objections, he found his body reacting to her bait though he preferred it stay impartial. I'm set on automatic, he thought. In this case, he was a poorly designed system which would complicate everything, not make it easier.

She'd unzipped his pants.

I'm supposed to stall her, not satisfy her. He was about to tell her he was on the verge of throwing up when someone shouted outside the swinging door. A man had cried out "no"several times, followed by a crash like metal on stone, a scuffle of footsteps and another voice apparently in charge, barking out, "Get him!"

For Charlie, the first man who'd yelled sounded a lot like Don. He pushed her away, stuck an elbow in her face. "Get off me!" he said, squirming under her. "I have to go to him."

Jacobi seemed surprised and broke off her seductive ploys, brushing her skirt back over her thighs. Charlie pleaded with her to untie him, struggled with the bindings. Instead, she zipped up his pants and hopped off his lap, running out of the room.

The scuffle outside continued and Charlie grew fierce, jerked forward, wrestling with the rope. The chair started to rock and he righted himself awkwardly but toppled over, heard a crack. Bracing his feet on the counter and pressing against the island, he pushed and tugged until the chair gave way; he'd busted the slat. Getting up, he bolted through the doors, ropes dangling, and down the hall to the machine room, rushing past Atlas and Lipman near the archway. There, Don lay sprawled on his back on the floor, Jacobi beside him.

Charlie went to him. "What did you do?" he said, feeling for a pulse. "What's wrong with him?" Don's nose bled, his face suffused with fever, but he moved his head from side to side, seemed to be regaining consciousness—or trying to.

Jacobi got up, stood over them. "He'll be all right, Charlie."

Reylott showed up at the entryway in a raincoat and hurled out a command: "Get the schoolboy out of here and into the truck. In the back. And keep him quiet for God's sake."

The odor was unmistakable. Disgustingly sweet.

Atlas and Lipman took hold of Charlie's arms, wrested him away from Don, but he resisted, refused to walk. He yelled at Jacobi, asking her why they'd used the drug on his brother again. "Why should I go with you? You're killing him," he said. "You lied—you're a sick woman!"

"Shut up, Charlie," Jacobi said, her eyes like a wildcat's. "You don't have a choice. I got you food, water, told Rey about Don. Now you're coming with me."

Witch. She expects a lot for a damned bread roll. "I won't be your project, you can't make—"

His back slammed the floor and several arms flattened him there, legs pinned in place. Faces zipped by in blurs and a vile, familiar stench swiftly descended over his mouth and he thought he would suffocate, tried to turn away. The cloth was warm and soft but he had to breathe in with both mouth and nose to ease the panic of never breathing again. The ceiling swirled; Atlas's eyes bore down on him. They lacked pity, prowled expectantly like a predator's, waiting for the chemical to take effect.

Over seconds, or minutes, the swirling slowed and everything stood fast, static as a photograph. Atlas's grin froze into place and silence replaced the grumble of the generator, the din of wind gusts and driving raindrops. He inhaled; it was easy now, the stench a distant phantom. Overhead, the rafter seemed far off, a hundred feet higher than where it had been. The tension departed from his shoulders, his legs, and he could barely keep his eyes open. A touch skimmed his face and a disembodied voice floated in the space over him.

Close your eyes, Charlie, it said, let it happen. And he did

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